


Revenge is Hollow

by Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)



Series: Wings in Disarray [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Episode: s01e01 Friends and Enemies, Gen, Mostly "Missing" Scenes, One Shot, World Building and Wing Choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:18:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1959897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revenge is hardly all people say it will be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge is Hollow

**Author's Note:**

> I promise, this isn't a rehashing of the first episode.
> 
> This is mostly just weaving "missing" scenes in without changing too much, giving descriptions as best as I can, and offering some changes.
> 
> Also, for reasons, I'm going...odd for the wings. Some people have insect wings and such, though a majority are the bird wings. The rules are a little different, such as insect wings actually being a bit stronger than...actual insect wings and regrowing more like skin if the "scales" get damage and scaring if the wings themselves are damaged, though wings do not grow back if cut off.
> 
> Most can't fly with their wings, and those that can are a bit envied.
> 
> Um...
> 
> *ponders*
> 
> Oh! People with insect wings aren't born with wings, but with nubs where their wings will come in and during puberty kind-of...yeah.
> 
> That is slightly mean, but that means d'Art was born with his wings. And little baby wings! So cute.
> 
> And I use the modern names for various wings, usually, because finding what they would have been called in 1600s France is next to impossible.
> 
> EDIT!!!!
> 
> The wonderful and brilliant [wanderingidealism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism) has made some really pretty artwork of some of the characters seen here!
> 
> [Aramis the dragonfly. He's got dragonfly wings that gleam rainbow in the sunlight, though that's not pictured, which is understandable.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2029365)

D'Artagnan grit his teeth as his wings flexed uselessly against their bindings as he rode after his father, the freezing rain that pounded down upon them only adding to the… _discomfort_  that was building along his back and throughout his wings.

They continued to ride through the freezing rain however, d’Artagnan having to bite back begging his father to pause long enough to free his wings while simultaneously swallowing back his jealousy at seeing the way his father’s wings fluttered under the cloak.

By the time the inn loomed out of the gloom, d’Artagnan was shivering and soaked to the bone, the promise he gave his uncle on keeping an eye on Father burning (his wings tensed and pulled tighter against his back before flexing in a manner to protect at the mere _idea_ of burning, heat and smoking _burning_ with the promise) in the back of his mind. If he was shivering and soaked, his father most likely was as well, though not as badly.

And Paris could wait, after all.

It wasn’t as if a day could change anything.

*~*~*

A day could change everything.

D’Artagnan slumped onto the bed in the, disgusting, inn in Paris. Having used a majority of the coins that _weren’t_ stolen to have his father prepared to be taken back to Gascony, along with his father’s favorite stallion, and a note explaining his failure to his uncle, he had not had much to spare now.

It would have to be enough, however, to avenge his father.

To find the one who had killed him, to find Athos, and…

D’Artagnan flinched, feelings his wings press back against his back, desperately wishing the men who had attacked them had at least allowed their wings to partially show. Even in the storm that his mind had become, he wished he had more than a _name_ to go off of.

But it was all he had, so he would have to hold onto it.

The ache in his wings escalated and d’Artagnan sighed before he closed his eyes and slowly shifted until he could lay on his stomach.

There was, unfortunately, no time between now and dinner to let his wings breathe, at least for a bit. And he still needed to find the Musketeer garrison and…

He let out a long sigh and focused on breathing.

He would free them once he avenged his father and not a moment before.

His wings were too memorable to allow them out sooner.

*~*~*

The woman with the green, no brown, no… _hazel_ eyes had wings like a Black Kite and he should have known.

Should have known that someone like that, with wings of an opportunist, who obviously cared nothing for the Spanish man she had been travelling with, would have lain with him, d’Artagnan for any other reason than to frame him.

He had leapt out of the second story window, forgetting about he had asked for the shirt to stay on as he lay with her just last night, and groaned as he hit the ground. He focused for a minute, the pain from his ribcage mingling with the pain from his wings trying to break free of his bindings and only the shout of _murderer_ had him on his feet and running again.

He would have to deal with the accusations later, clear his name _later,_ but for now, he needs to avenge his father.

He hadn’t intended to accost a woman with wings like a silver-studded blue butterfly, to insult her or hurt her or…pass out as the pain caught up with him.

*~*~*

He awoke some time later, he was sure, with the pain of his ribs mingling with the relief of freedom for his wings, which were twitching a little under him, a pillow placed between his shoulder blades to allow his wings to be…

His wings were free.

His eyes snapped open, his wings flaring out slightly as panic gripped his heart and he heard the Madame trying to calm him. “It’s all right, you’re safe, I promise,” she soothed and he looked up at her, groaning slightly as he registered all his aches, wondering where his father was, briefly, before it crashed back, his black wings of bone and scales and flesh curling around him protectively, grief filling him.

“No, I can’t stay here,” he stated, feeling his wings shift as he stood, groaning as he held onto his ribs.

“You’re in no condition to fight!” the woman protested, even as d’Artagnan collected up his clothing.

“What makes you think I want to fight?” he responded.

“I have three older brothers. I know that look in a man’s eye. Why do you want to go to the Musketeers’ garrison?” she asked as he pulled his bindings out of the mess he had made.

“I need to speak with Athos,” he answered as he focused on getting his wings to fold back down against his back.

“I know him. Why do you need to speak with him?” she answered and d’Artagnan’s head snapped up to stare at her.

“That’s none of your business!” he snapped before he focused back on his wings, which were refusing to fold back down into their painful position.

“You made it my business when you fainted at my feet!” she snarled back and he looked up at her, wings flaring slightly and undoing his concentration.

He then took a deep breath and stared down at the bindings in his hands. “I’m sorry. I’m…not usually like this. My manners are usually much better,” he stated and he looked over at her, wings folding down once more, the first bone that went from his shoulder blades to his hips, when in their natural state, bumping against his back.

“I’m d’Artagnan,” he offered.

“Bonnacieux. Constance Bonnacieux,” she responded and d’Artagnan gave a small bow before he focused back on his wings.

With a minute shift, those first bones pulled closer, collecting in the middle of his back, though trying to get the second bone, which would bring the third, flat, bone in line with his shoulder was proving difficult. He understood the difficulty, however and, if he had a choice, he would let his wings go free, let them stretch wide and fall naturally instead of this… _torture_ he put himself through, the fourth bones of his wings, the final fold down, bumping against his arms at the thought.

If he didn’t strap them down, bind them painfully against his back to the point of near breaking, he would be lucky if all he got thrown at him were names. And his luck always ran out when his wings were involved.

If he was unlucky, he would…

His wings snapped out, narrowly missing Constance’s own wings when he felt a touch on the fourth bone of his left wing and he winced at the way they hit the chandelier, recoiling instantly to pull tight against him, but not in a way he could restrain them.

“Let me help,” she stated.

“I don’t need your help!” he snapped and she glared at him.

“My oldest brother has wings like yours! And you need it! You haven’t been able to let them out, so it’ll be harder this way. Just let me help!” she demanded and he stared at her before he nodded and felt the way she carefully helped him fold his wings against his back, forcing him up straighter.

They bound them quickly and he stared at her before he quickly pulled on his clothes, wings already straining against the bindings. Strapping things on, careful with his wings, he hesitated at the doorway before he looked back at her. “Athos killed my father, Constance. Please…think kindly on me, if you think on me at all,” he stated and then he was gone, heading for the garrison.

*~*~*

Three men rode in before him and d’Artagnan immediately dismissed the large man with wings like a raven’s, as none who attacked him had wings large enough to fly. He was sure that once the man dismounted the long pinions would drag on the ground unless he concentrated on lifting them up, like his uncle did with his great wings like those of some feathered jewel of the New World, even as he walked in, drawing his pistol as he did so.

“I am looking for Athos!” he announced, taking in the golden wings of the somber like man who near a man whose iridescent dragonfly wings flared slightly at the call.

“I am he,” the man with the golden wings stated.

“Draw your sword, one of us dies here,” he responded as he holstered his pistol, feeling his wings strain, briefly, against their bindings before they settled back, his muscles aching as he tensed all over.

He ignores the man with the dragonfly wings comment about an entrance, but he doesn’t care. He focuses on the fight, the fact his father’s soul will _finally_ be at peace igniting within him.

It is a sad fight, truly. Athos gives him a chance to end it, after slamming him into the wooden support strut of the lean-to for the horses, agony exploding behind his eyeballs as a knife is stabbed next to his head.

When Athos walks away, however, and he throws the knife back, fury and pain bleeding into his need to avenge his father. He knows, however, the moment the man with dragonfly wings screams Athos’s name, that he knows he’s gone too far.

It ends shortly after that, with him pushed back against the stairs by the three, their wings spread in a threatening manner (the man with wings large enough to fly with does not need it and the dragonfly wings are very obviously a glimmering rainbow in the light now they were fully flared), having failed.

Athos’s wings, even flared as they are now, do not match the wings hidden under capes.

He has lost his father’s murderer.

The fact Constance comes to his defense does not help, instead causing him to snap at her, only to flinch back when she turns her rage on him. He ducks his head slightly and then Athos is arrested and…

Constance grabs his wrist, gently and tugs him away. “Let’s get you taken care of,” she murmured and he follows numbly, grief causing him to try to make himself as small as he can as he follows meekly after the first person not related to him to  _not_ call him demon spawn, along with other, less savory, names.

*~*~*

Constance takes care of him and he does his best to keep on her husband’s good side as she tries to figure out if his ribs are broken are not, cautious to keep the shirt low. He is not expecting the Musketeers to come through after he admits his failure and how he cannot allow himself rest.

He knows Constance hears what he won’t say, that his wings will remain bound till his father’s murderer is dead, but he’s standing, willing to face them, even as they urge him to join them in clearing the name of the man he wrongfully accused of murder.

He agrees, because this is a weight he does not think he can carry, to allow an innocent man to die for the crimes of a guilty one, and so he follows them out, ignoring Constance a bit as he does so.

As he leads the Musketeers to where he’s stabled his mare, hoping she hasn’t been stolen, he learns their names are Aramis and Porthos. They don’t like him, which he understands, and he is worried, in a distant part of himself, that the fact he’s accused of murder will make them dislike him _further_ , but it never comes up.

He is able to collect Fleur, his mare, without even a murmur, paying for her care before he tacks her up and follows the Musketeers back to the garrison.

They have till dawn tomorrow to save Athos from the jaws of death, and so d’Artagnan focuses on getting Fleur ready as they walk.

*~*~*

The ride back to the inn is painful in more ways than one.

There is the physical ache that spreads through his wings and back, there is the mental pain he has, somehow, brought this upon these three men, and there is the emotional pain of the fact they are only bringing him along because they have no choice.

All of this is only made worse by the fact Fleur hates it when he rides without his wings free and is shying at random things as they ride.

He manages, however, and soon she is cantering along, calmed down.

He wants to let his wings out, spread them wide and maybe just fly away from all of this, but he keeps them close and pushes the desire into the darkest part of himself.

*~*~*

He has killed Gaudet.

The River Kingfisher winged man had tried to kill him first, however, and if Aramis hadn’t shouted his name, he would be the one in the dirt instead. He has avenged his father, killed the man who murder him, but it feels empty, like his chest has been carved out.

It doesn’t feel like a renewed sense of purpose, but the echoing finality of a crypt being closed.

He has his vengeance, but he’s condemned an _innocent_ man to die. His wings are screaming in agony, fighting against their bindings, trying to wrap around him, hide him from the world, and his head snaps up, warm blood streaking down his cheek, when he hears a whistle.

“With the uniforms and Dujon’s confession, it’ll be enough to clear Athos,” Porthos stated and d’Artagnan nearly hits the ground in relief.

He does not think he could have lived with an innocent man’s blood on his hands.

*~*~*

“Will you be staying in Paris?” Porthos asked as he taught d’Artagnan the card game, once he had established that, no, he would not be betting.

He didn’t have money to lose. “Well, I have to go back to Gascony first. Bury…bury Father next to Mother, talk with my uncle about the…the farm…and the tenants,” he answered and gave the smallest shrug he could manage.

“After that?” Porthos asked softly and he looked up at him.

“I…I don’t know,” he responded.

“Well, the Musketeers, in my opinion, could always stand to use a few more like you. I mean, in the span of hours, you were willing to help a man that for two days you thought was your father’s murderer. Takes a certain kind of guts to admit when you’re wrong like that,” Porthos answered.

“I couldn’t have lived with an innocent man’s blood on my hands,” d’Artagnan answered as he folded.

It was bad enough his hands were stained with his father’s blood.

Porthos chuckled and revealed the fact he had absolutely nothing in his hands and d’Artagnan groaned, burying the heels of his hands into his eyes as his wings flexed uselessly against their bindings.

(Across from him Porthos glanced over at Athos before frowning at the minute shifting under the Gascon’s shirt that could only come from bound wings and wondered what had driven the lad to do such a thing to himself.)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the OT3/4 Wings AU prompt here: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=1110278#cmt1110278
> 
> Um...okay, I probably suck at describing the wings because...yeah.
> 
> Anyway, d'Art has Draco from Dragonheart's wings. Because they fold really tiny up against his skin and that's what I needed when I was like, "What if d'Art had to hide his wings because they got him in "trouble" due to the religious fervor of the time?"
> 
> Anyway, yeah.
> 
> So...yay?
> 
> Yeah, this is a series, but this will probably only get written when I can get up the inspiration/time/mental capacity to update, but...Wing fic?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Musketeers Wingfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005389) by [wanderingidealism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism)
  * [Charon the Blue Jay](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005551) by [wanderingidealism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism)
  * [Porthos, A Clever Bird Formerly of the Streets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144238) by [wanderingidealism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism)




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